Warning: This post contains tales of alcohol comsumption. Not mine, for I only had a couple of very weak white russians. But still, mom, I’m just sayin’ there’s drunken behavior in it. You’ve been warned.

As I mentioned previously, Louise and her boyfriend, Martin, came up for an impromptu visit. And boy was I excited to see a friend. Have I mentioned yet, today, I have no friends here? (Wil claims he doesn’t either, but then I wonder who those people who come over to play video games with him are. Tho, to be honest, I’ve only heard about them, never seen them. They only seem to appear when I am down in the states. ) I was happy to get out of the house and have some fun.

Martin is a guy who loves his alcohol. And once Wil discovered they had many things in common, a belief that beer should be room temperature for example, he decided tha the polite thing to do, as the host country, would be to love his alcohol right along side Martin. So as we would explore downtown Vancouver together, on a hunt for tshirts with pinup girls on them, we’d stop off in various pubs for beers and diet colas. (Louise and I were the diet cola drinkers) We were having a lovely time and enjoyed many fine stories. Including Martin’s stories of working for a very very rich man who owned a very ill mannered monkey named Elmo. Side note: no matter how much fun it may seem, a pet monkey is a bad idea.

Louise’s sole purpose in visiting Vancouver was to eat Chinese food at a particular Chinese restaurant, the name of which she could not remember. Seeing me was just a nice side bonus. And we looked and looked, but are pretty sure that where a Chinese food restaurant used to be, a Japanese food restaurant now sits. Not the same thing at all. We wondered around looking for somewhere else to eat and ended up in a Seafood and Chop house.

At first glance, it looked pretty casual, but it was actually very nice. We got a table on the garden terrace and it was lovely and well heated. Now, this is where things start to go down hill. For Wil. He was doing fine until he decided, that he would just have whatever it was his new drinking buddy was having. So, they both had double vodka tonics during their meals. Two of them. (I should have realized it was taking a turn for the worse at that point, Wil doesn’t like vodka) As the restaurant had a humidor on hand, they both smoked a nice cuban cigar before dinner which, apparently, can only truly be enjoyed with a glass of very top shelf scotch. Neat. And, if the waiter accidentally brings you a second serving of scotch, not knowing that a helpful coworker already brought the first round, might as well keep it, right? All before you get anything in your stomach.

When it came time to order, Martin ordered prime rib as rare as could be, and Wil went right along for the ride. But he didn’t eat much of it, although he loves prime rib. Since he was eating his mashed potatoes, yorkshire pudding and vegetables, I figured it had just become too difficult for him to handle two eating utensils at one time. Later he told me he doesn’t like rare beef, he’s more of a medium to medium well guy, and had no idea why he kept saying “me too!” after everything Martin ordered.

Here’s when I knew he’d truly had too much. First, he stuck almost an entire yorkshire pudding in his mouth at once, even though it was roughly the size of a cat’s head. Since he was facing away from the other diners, no harm was done. We just laughed at him. Secondly, Martin ordered oysters, six of them. Wil ate three. He hates seafood. And there is no way, under normal circumstances, he would eat an oyster. But he started eyeballing it like a little kid would eyeball a plate of cookies. I told him not to do it, but Martin egged him on and sure enough, he slurped one down. I asked him how they taste and he said like snot and then he ate two more! He said something about them being pretty and he couldn’t help himself. But if you ask me, he was probably just attracted to the tabasco on top. He likes spicy things.

Oh my poor sweet drunken Canadian bf. I blame Martin. Even though he SUPER generously paid for dinner. We owe them a very very very nice dinner. We had taken the skytrain into the city, but there was no way I was dragging him back home that way, we took a cab. He was happy and quite docile when I put him to bed. . It really was a fun evening. And Wil really enjoyed Martin and Louise. He remembered more than I thought he would. When I asked him how he felt the next morning he said “My mouth tastes like tonic, scotch and cigars. My mouth tastes like a dead hooker.” Which, I am pretty sure, qualifies as a successful evening, in Martin’s book.

Several years ago, a friend of mine moved to Canada from the UK for the same reason I moved here. Love. Awwwww. Anyway, when she found out that I was living in BC, she emailed me and told me if I ever felt like I needed to bitch, she was the number one source for Things That Are Wrong With Canada. I was a little confused because I was under the impression that all Things That Are Wrong in North America… in Western Countries… in fact, in the Entire World, come from the United States. If I were to start to criticize Canada, all they would have to say is “Well, you should talk… AMERICAN!” But Elle is from England, so she probably doesn’t have the same kind of burden of being responsible for all the evil in the world.

And yet, I must be honest. There are Things Wrong With Canada. There is “wrong” like the fact that Quaker Oats does not come in a cylindrical cardboard box, but rather a bag. There are things that are “Wrong” like the fact that you can’t get Red Vines or, except in one rare case, Milk Duds. That there is no Target. And a distinct shortage of Dr Pepper on tap, even in places like Burger King which have Dr Pepper in the states. And then there is Flat Out Wrong that my mind is still reeling from now, three days after the fact.

Scene: Wil and I are watching Corner Gas, a Canadian show I LOVE, it is one of the many Things That Are Oh So Right On in Canada. In this scene, Davis the cop is putting one of those stickers-that-shows-the-height-of-people-coming-through-the-door-and-robbing-you, by the door to Corner Gas. And Brett comments on the sticker. Brett runs the gas station. Davis replies, “Well, we call it a decal, but same thing.”

Me: What did he say? Did he say “deckle?” Does he mean decal [DE-cal]?

Wm: Yes, deckle. D-E-C-A-L. Deckle.

Me: He’s kidding, right? That’s a joke. Like when people use unnecessarily fancy words, and then pronounce them wrong, right?

Wm: What are you talking about.

– More people in the show use the word decal [deckle]

Me: No way… tell me you do NOT pronounce it deckle up here. That is so unbelievably WRONG.

Wm: What is your problem? It’s a deckle.

Me: It is not deckle! There is an “A” in there! It’s DE-cal, unless you are feeling fancy, in which case it’s de-CAL. This is a joke, right? You are putting me on.

Wm: Why would I do that?

Me: Because you can, you can make me believe all sorts of crazy foreign things, and lie in wait for me to say “deckle” in front of someone, which I can assure you will NEVER happen.

Wm: You are so weird.